


Deadbeat heart-throb

by strangeera



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6397285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeera/pseuds/strangeera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been distant lately, but Robert's trying hard to be supportive. Aaron starts using casual drugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Robert

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely different story to You're Alright, Robert is going to be much more supportive in this one. I carried over a few details like Robert's love for video games and his old iPhone that Aaron uses because I wanted to, and I do what I want. Drug use is gonna escalate, so be prepared for that. Thanks!

The first time, we were at a house party at Adam and Victoria's. They'd just officially put in for a mortgage, redecorated the whole thing – it was really something. Victoria's really into that stuff, though. Always reading decorating magazines, talking my ear off about “chalk board paint” - her idea of a “fun thing to do” on a bank holiday is a visit to Ikea, a new rug, or a lamp. 

 

They were having a little thing, just a few people. I was drinking mimosa's in the kitchen, courtesy of Victoria, obviously; which was painted green, with Adam and Finn, talking about Fallout, or something. Adam wasn't that into it, said he preferred straight shooters like Call of Duty or Battlefield – Finn was rolling his eyes, and I was just staring at Aaron and feeling a little bit beside myself. 

 

He hadn't seemed like himself all evening, which wasn't a new occurrence. He'd just sat on the beanbag in the corner of the living room drinking orange Hooch, blast from the past, and playing Two Dots on my old iPhone. I was feeling adrift, but hesitant to say anything because he hates when I worry about him, when anybody does. He thinks I think he's weak, and it breaks my fucking heart because that couldn't be more untrue. The truth is, when I look at him, I feel like I can't breathe. When he looks at me I feel like I can't breathe, either, I'm that blown away. He might as well be carrying a sword, surrounded by beams of golden light, going on adventures with Jake the dog. I can't get enough, he's a total hero. He won't have it though, never will.

 

On the counter in the kitchen, beside a fruit bowl in the shape of Mickey Mouse's face, there was a black Bluetooth speaker that was playing music from somebody's phone. Robbers by The 1975. Something about it made me feel introspective - nervous, but sad. Like I'd physically lost something important, with him sitting so far away, though not literally. And all evening I'd been trying to include him in the conversation, whatever it was at the time, but he just sat there, staring at my old phone and looking sad. I was wondering, am I really that awful, and then I told myself to fuck off. Thinking like that is what I do. What I've always done. It's probably part of the reason I've been such a, basically a cunt for most of my life, but I'm not a psychiatrist. 

 

It doesn't accomplish anything, and he makes me feel different, anyway. Like I could be better. Well, used to. We haven't had sex in five weeks, not that I care about that specifically, but we sleep in the same bed, eat the same food yet he feels like a stranger, too far away and always nonchalant. I try to touch his arm and he squirms like I'm oozing slime, and I can't help but think about absolutely everything bad I've ever done, internalise it all. 

 

He did make me feel different, though, so I'm holding on. Still does, sometimes, in rare, hyper-realised moments; the small window of absolute emotion he shows when he first wakes up, before it fades away till the next day. Like I have to be responsible, be there for him. Give him a reason to carry on, as narcissistic as it sounds. I took a swig of the mimosa, and stared at him for a few minutes, helpless, both of us. He didn't look up, but I didn't expect him to. Then Adam said something about letting the cat out, and I moved away from the back door, lost in thought, and when I looked back at Aaron, he'd vanished. 

 

Victoria was sitting on the “charcoal” sofa, flicking through music channels on the TV, and when I asked her where's he gone, she said he's gone upstairs to appreciate my fine interior design skills, obviously. Nah, he's having a wee, I think. I realised I really needed a wee, too.

 

Victoria's really done a number on this, I was telling myself, climbing the stairs. Everything was absolutely spot on – shades of grey lining the walls, forest green carpet on the floor that looked expensive. The bathroom looked like something out of The Matrix. I had a wee, washed my hands, dried them with a towel with Donald Duck and Daisy on it. Stared at myself in the mirror, thinking about all the conversations we've been missing out on. We finish work, watch the soaps for a bit, then he falls asleep, or pretends to, on the sofa, and I go to bed. Most nights. I say you alright? and he says yeah, are you? and that's about it. I miss everything. 

 

The bedroom door next to the bathroom was closed, and from inside, I could hear a scraping sound, and when I opened the door, he was leaning over the white dresser, and I was taking in the pink, but nice pink, walls, the white bed frame, light fixture, champagne carpets – so nice. He was snorting coke cut with a Subway reward card through a twenty, and I felt like the floor had disappeared, and I was hurtling through time and space. Everybody does it, I was telling myself, but I was panicking. In every club bathroom you'll find them, snorting off the top of the toilet, the edge of the sink, and talking shit. 

 

But not Aaron. Not my fucking Aaron, not after everything. Not after I'm trying so hard to keep us both afloat. It's just a bit of coke, I was telling myself, no big deal, but I felt like I was on fire, because he's not okay, hasn't been for a while. I stare at him when he's asleep and when I can't sleep, sometimes, illuminated by the glow from my phone screen, and he just isn't the same person. Similar, but fading. A facsimile. He looked up at me, rubbing his tongue against the back of his throat, and there was still some of it clinging to his nostril. 

 

“What?” he asked, “don't look so upset, it's nothing,” and he looked to me then like a completely different person. Not physically, but something about the way he looked at me seemed off. Alien. An imposter, come to abduct me, take me for everything, but he already did that, I suppose. 

 

I didn't know what to say, couldn't say anything even if I did. I brought my hand up to my nose, reeling, and said, “you've got... you know.”

 

“Cheers,” he said, like we were mates in a pub. He grabbed the Subway reward card and the twenty, and pushed past me. I was leaning against the door, staring blankly at the top of the dresser, at the remnants, and my face was hot. I could hear him downstairs, suddenly the life and soul of the fucking party, and I felt a part of me break away, drift for a few moments, then sink.


	2. Aaron

How ya feeling? That was the first thing he said to me this morning when I woke up, wearing a black t-shirt with the monkey from the PG Tips advert on it, soaked in my own sweat and tangled up in the sheets – the duvet cover was hanging off, and something about a white duvet with no cover makes me anxious, makes me think of the past, bad stuff. I looked down at my legs and noticed I was wearing only one black sock, the other was nowhere to be found. It felt a bit like a metaphor. There was an empty bottle of Sunny Delight on the night stand next to the bed and my jeans were in a pile on the floor, surrounded by spare change.

 

Robert was sitting beside me in the bed, wearing a light blue t-shirt with nothing on it, a pair of black boxers that said Authentic Apparel on them. White tube socks, and his hair was a right mess, and I was thinking about how I used to love waking up next to him like this, before, when he looked like a Jibba Jabber I used to have when I was a kid. Now I don't feel anything, all I could think about was mixing the last of the MDMA in my pocket with strawberry Nesquik because there was only a little bit left. He was staring at me like he didn't know who I was. An alien, unexplained fuck-up, and there was an open laptop resting on his lap. I hate it when he looks at me like that. Makes me feel like a decoy, a distraction until somebody better, somebody who doesn't want to kill themselves every time they spill a bit of milk while making a cup of tea comes along. Like I wanna wake up every day hating his face, my face, the fucking stupid socks he wears, wishing I was so fucked up I was orbiting Jupiter. I don't.

 

I don't want to wear clothes. I don't want to convince people I'm alright. 

 

How ya feeling? What a fucking naïve question, after everything. How am I feeling? Alright, you asked. 

 

I feel like that one, lonely black sock hanging off my foot, wondering where the other's one gone, though it sleeps next to me every night, finishes texts with the tortoise emoji because I think it's cute. And you know, I still remember how it feels when I wanted that, when all I wanted was that. But now it's vanished, locked away inside an empty room inside a house that might as well be on fire, it's that inaccessible. I feel sad all the time. I have no motivation to do anything. I don't want to shower. 

 

I've always romanticised death a little bit, it's just one of those things. I think maybe it's a coping mechanism, but I'm not smart enough to figure it out, put it all together. I don't have the motivation anyway. I've always been able to control it though. At least sort of understand it, figured that's just how I was. Born under a bad sign. You know, some people play squash or collect beanie babies to chill out. I think about elaborate, spectacular ways I could kill myself, if I really wanted to. 

 

Lately, it's all I can think about. He asks me if I'm alright, and I say yeah, you? but really, I don't care. I'm not paying attention. I've already zoned out, thinking about hanging myself with my phone charger. It's relentless. 

 

Otherwise, I'm great, ta. How are you?


	3. Robert

When I got home from work I found him right I'd left him that morning – laying on the sofa in front of the telly, wearing a black hoodie, no t-shirt, black boxers and one black sock. It was late, and the lights were off. The TV was on mute, and there was a little bit of cocaine on the glass coffee table next to an ashtray that said Leeds United on it, and in the ashtray there was a spliff, mostly smoked. Next to the ashtray there was a blue Clipper with a picture of a fish on it, and the fish looked happy. He'd drawn a smiley face with his finger in the coke on the table, and all I could think about was that Wednesday morning two months ago.

 

I remember it was raining outside, like really pissing it down; Aaron remarked that it seemed “apocalyptic”. We were in our bedroom, and I woke up to the sound of the rain and the sound of crunching, and gunfire. It was still dark outside, and I was feeling a little bit groggy, really needed a wee, and when I pressed my phone to check the time it was five past four. The lamp was on, and when I looked over at him he was laying in the bed next to me, propped up against the headboard with two pillows, wearing a blue dressing gown, a white Donnay t-shirt and black boxer shorts. There was a little plate resting on his stomach with a bag of Quavers and some brown bread on it. He loves crisp sandwiches, and although I hate them, I find it absolutely adorable and nostalgic. He was covered in crumbs, holding a PS4 controller and staring at the TV. 

 

I wasn't even mad that he'd sort of woken me up. He just looked so content laying there next to me, like this was where he really belonged, that I felt so overwhelmed, unable to speak for a few minutes. So I just stared at him for a while, memorising every little thing – the hairs on his forearms, the way his arms get a little bit chubby at the top, in such a nice way. The lines on his neck, the small patch of dry skin beneath his beard that he always gets in the winter. I'm constantly blown away, everything about him gets me going. I'd wear a t-shirt with his face on it if he'd let me. 

 

Eventually, I said, “what are you doing up?” and he said, “oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up,” and I said, “nah, it's fine, what are you playing?” and he said, “Grand Theft Auto, cheeky fucker nicked me motorbike,” with this completely endearing subtle roll of his eyes, and I said, trying to emulate him, “fucking savage,” and he looked over at me bemused, kind of shaking his head, and said, “fucking savage?” and he was laughing, and I said, “I need a wee,” and he said, “do you want one of these,” pointing to the absolute abomination sitting on the plate on his belly, and I said, “you having a laugh, pal?” like I always do, and as if on cue, like he always does, he replied, “no way, buddy,” and in that moment I felt like I'd honestly been skewered through the heart, I was so emotional; the carefree, back and forth banter that had always seemed like such a pipe dream at the start; the little in-jokes we were constantly coming up with; even the way my hand brushed against his leg casually as I began to sit up, I just felt so thrilled, so fucking ecstatic that finally, you know, this was it, and I leant over and kissed him hard on the mouth, willing my lips to let him know the score without words, and when he put his hand on the side of my face and kissed me back I could taste the Quavers and you know sometimes when you're falling asleep and you feel really small, or the bed feels too big, or your arms feel like they don't exist or your legs feel too far away? It felt a little bit like that. 

 

I'd been to the Nisa to pick up a few things – more Quavers, more brown bread, some strawberry Ribena and some Bueno's. Thought they might cheer him up. Remind him of something good, something better. How fucking hopeless, I was telling myself, how could I have been so ignorant? Everybody does it. It's no big deal. My face was hot, and I felt like I wanted to stab myself in the neck, splay blood all over the walls and join him on the sofa, fade away together. In the dark, under the glow from the muted TV screen, he looked dead. I couldn't breathe, or forgot how to.

 

I always hated crisp sandwiches. Something about the confluence of the textures didn't sit right with me. That was Aaron all over though A total confluence, of everything ever. A glorious completely transgressive mismatch that shouldn't work but does. He brought out the best of me, told me to shut the fuck up when I was acting too pretentious or mean. I can't rely on myself alone to be a good person. I need him. My eyes were wet and my legs were shaking as I approached him laying there in the dark. Looking dead, or almost, surrounded by empty orange Dorito's wrappers and Diet Fanta cans like dead autumn leaves surrounding a coffin in a graveyard. In profile, under the glow; in some other universe, the whole scene might have reminded me of a fairytale. A universe in which I wasn't imploding slowly. Smashing through comets.

 

As I placed my hand on his shoulder, I noticed he smelled really bad, but I really didn't care. I was holding my breath as I said his name.

 

He shook my hand off and didn't look up at me, and yeah, it hurt, a lot, but all I felt was relieved. Like I could see colours again. “I'm here,” I said, sitting down on the coffee table next to the cocaine with the smiley face drawn into it. Bracing myself against my knees, slowly learning how to breathe again. If I lost him, I couldn't bear it.

 

“I'm fine,” he said quietly, burrowing a little bit into the crook of his elbow. “Chill out.” A dog was playing football on the TV. I stared at the smiley face in the coke on the table for a few minutes, mesmerised, relieved, feeling a little bit embarrassed, kind of pissed off, then smudged it away. 

 

“Fuck you,” I wanted to say, but didn't. I felt so stupid, like I'd overreacted in a huge way but fuck you. I can't rely on myself alone to be a good person.


End file.
